THE FLY

a poem by William Blake

Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink, and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

THINK NOT OF IT, SWEET ONE
John Keats

Think not of it, sweet one, so;—
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any—anywhere.

Do not look so sad, sweet one,—
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then,—it is gone—
O ’twas born to die!

Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
Weep, I’ll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.

Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.

Yet—as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses,
E’en let us too! but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.